


An Obscene Fixation

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Watching, implied viclock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of pornographic videos awakens old feelings and fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John’s date stopped short at the top of the stairs, and John ran into her.

He wrapped a hand over her shoulder. “All right?”

“Um,” she hummed, turning her head towards John and then cocking it towards the sitting room. “Who’s that?”

He peered around her to find Sherlock face down on the sofa, snoring, the sheet wrapped around him failing miserably to cover him. And unfortunately, there were no pyjamas underneath, so John and his date got a prime view of a sliver of butt crack highlighted by the light from the stairwell.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s my flatmate.”

“Oh.” She hugged her coat to herself.

“Here.” John stepped back and opened the door to the kitchen. “Cup of tea?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Sure.”

However, as soon as John stepped through the door, he wished he hadn’t. He could have sworn it was clean when he left. In fact, he had specifically requested that Sherlock not destroy it. But as it was, John didn’t see a single spot where two people might find enough table space for anything more than half a cracker.

John stepped back, rubbing his hands together. “On second thought, why don’t you head upstairs, and I’ll fix us that cuppa.”

She peered over John’s shoulder, a grimace forming on her face. “Let’s try this another time, John,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I had a lovely time.”

“Can I walk you out?”

“I’m all right. I’ll see you around.” And with that, she trotted down the stairs and left.

John ran his hands through his hair, a snort and a grumble sounding behind him. He turned on the noise, seriously considering kicking Sherlock right in the middle of his exposed arse. That was the only second date he’d had in a long time, and she was interested. At least, she had been until she was exposed to the harsh reality of life with Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t keep it together for even two hours while John had a nice evening out?

With a huff, John ripped his jacket off his shoulders and hung it by the door. Although he didn’t actively try to wake Sherlock, he made no effort to keep quiet as he attempted to fix the disaster area of a kitchen. Dishes clinked against each other in the sink. Trash thudded into the rubbish tin. John grunted and muttered as he wiped down the table and counters, scowling at unidentified substances on the cabinets. But no matter how loud John got, the most significant reaction he got was an especially loud snore.

So, twenty minutes after arriving home, with Sherlock’s sleeping bum seared into his brain, John stomped up the stairs to his room. His clean, nice-smelling room with crisp sheets and a fresh duvet. _Sherlock, you bastard._

With a deep sigh, John grabbed his laptop from the nightstand and tossed it on the bed. He tugged his belt from its buckle and yanked it from the belt loops. _God-damned, mother-fucking Sherlock Holmes._ He was either brilliantly passive aggressive or woefully clueless, and both seemed equally plausible.

John ripped his trousers down to his knees.

But God, what did it matter which he was? It wasn’t like Sherlock would listen to him anyway. And the end result was the same. John hadn’t so much as snogged someone for months, and the last time he’d had a girlfriend was Christmas.

As John worked open the buttons of his shirt, he stared at the laptop. For a moment, he considered putting it away. He didn’t particularly want to end the night with yet another disappointing wank, but at the same time, he was so agitated that he’d probably be up for hours if he didn’t.

So, with a huff, he whipped the shirt from his shoulders and threw back his covers. He arranged the pillows, sat, and opened the laptop, directing it to his favorite porn site. On private browsing because he’d learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago. He guided the cursor to the search box and hovered his fingers over the keys.

But his thoughts were so consumed with the destroyed kitchen and the stubbornly slumbering Sherlock (why hadn’t John just left the mess for Sherlock to clean?) that he couldn’t come up with a single search term. None of the categories jumped out to him either, so he sorted all by rating and scrolled.

About halfway down the second page, something finally caught his interest. The preview pane was dominated by a lean male torso, and the title boasted, “Billy Comes Untouched.”

John clicked the link, and the video came up with a man attaching the suction cup of a royal purple, mountable dildo to the middle of a table. John shimmied down in the bed and set the video to fullscreen.

The man on the video crawled onto the table, his face just outside of frame, and squeezed lube onto his palm. In silence, the man spread the lube up and down the dildo, twisting his palm at the head in an obvious attempt to incite a reaction from the viewer.

It worked, and John’s jaw dropped as the performer turned away from the camera to spread the extra lube between the cheeks of his truly lovely arse. His middle and index fingers slid up and down his hole, pink and perfect and waxed for viewer benefit. John was not complaining. It was downright lickable.

Next, the man faced the camera and positioned himself above the dildo, slowly sinking down onto it. The only sounds coming from the video were rushed exhalations, making the act seem all the more intimate. Like he and John were sharing a secret.

John cupped himself through his pants, his fingertips toying with his bollocks, tickling at the furred, furrowed skin.

The performer stopped when the dildo was fully seated and lifted his testicles to provide a better view of where the toy disappeared into his body. Still, he was silent, the rise and fall of his chest and the sounds of heavy breathing the only evidence that the man on the screen was indeed alive and aroused.

John pressed the heel of his hand to his testicles, imagining the feel of arse cheeks nestled against them, the weight of a body on his upper thighs. He spread his own thighs and shifted down the bed, sliding his hand down to press against his perineum then bringing it back up until he could massage his glans with the palm.

Finally, the performer braced his hands on the table and tipped up his hips. His semi-erect penis pulsed and filled, and a whisper of a moan escaped his hidden mouth. His hips tilted again, a press and a pause. Teasing himself as much as the camera. The twitch of the performer’s cock and the bead of precome welling at the tip made John’s mouth water.

As John reached into his pants, he imagined licking that bead away, causing one of those quiet utterances. He wrapped his hand around his cock and canted his hips into it, echoing the sounds on the video.

After a few more teasing tilts, the performer rocked against the toy, and from the angle of the hips, John could tell that the toy must have been pressing hard into the man’s prostate. And the fluid pulsing from the slit in time with his thrusts didn’t argue. But still, the performer remained mostly silent, only the slightest sighs and whimpers escaping.

God, what must his face look like? Was he naturally so under control, or were his features distorted from holding back the sounds? Was he biting his lips, eyes wrenched shut? Or was his head thrown back, mouth wide and panting? To whom did that beautiful body belong?

John squeezed his shaft, thrusting into his fist. His own precome was insufficient lubrication, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop long enough to fetch anything. Without releasing his cock, he pushed down his pants until he could kick them aside.

The performer thrust himself down on the toy, and as he grinded himself against it, his circling hips making his abdominal muscles undulate, a fully-fledged groan ripped through the air. Even through the tinny filter of John’s speakers, that groan filled John’s senses, low and long and absolutely wrecked.

John gasped and released his cock just long enough to spit on his hand. He thrust hard into his slicked fist as the man on the video fucked himself relentlessly.

One of the performer’s hands splayed across his lower abdomen, fingers digging into his flesh. And John wished he could jump through the screen to bring him over the edge. Wrap his fist around that perfect slick cock, his own sliding against the hairs of the performer’s upper thigh. _That’s it, baby. Take what you want. Make yourself come for me._

John shuddered, his abdomen tensing, his knees jerking towards his chest. His eyes forced themselves closed, and he grunted, able to do little but ride the wave as he came. Finally, as the peak ebbed, John was able to open his eyes and take a breath.

The performer thrust himself against the dildo one last time before his body tensed. Every muscle stood out in sharp, sinewy relief from the tops of his thighs to the forearms attached to clenched fists. And then the performer made the most erotic sound John had ever heard as semen spattered against his body. It went beyond a moan or even a shout. His voice came out like a machine gun, the shudders and clenches through his body interrupting the sounds, and even as he came down, gasps and whimpers and moans continued until his breathing finally settled into an even pattern. The sounds dissipated until John once again heard only the sounds of breathing.

The performer’s fingers tangled in the hair of his lower abdomen before drifting up, spreading his release in paths across his chest and stomach. And with one long sigh from the performer, the video ended.

John blinked at the screen, jaw somewhere around his knees, before escaping the fullscreen display. He hovered the cursor above the download button. He took three deep breaths and clicked it.


	2. Chapter 2

John tottered down the stairs, still in his t-shirt and boxers because somehow he had never changed into a proper pair of pyjamas. Sherlock sat in the kitchen, staring into the eyepiece of his microscope, still wrapped in his sheet, and John envisioned ripping the sheet away, Sherlock spinning like a top as if he were in an old cartoon. So maybe he was still a bit bitter about the somnalent cock block.

“I put the kettle on.” Sherlock gestured towards it without looking up. The sound of water coming to a boil spooled from the spout, and two mugs sat next to it, tea bag labels hanging from the edges like tiny white flags.

“Thanks,” John said through a yawn. “I take it you slept well.”

Sherlock hummed by way of response as John poured water into the mugs. He pulled one from the counter, turned, and slid it onto the table. A few drops splashed over the edge, and Sherlock sopped them up with his sheet.

John scoffed. Sure. Now he’s concerned with the state of the kitchen.

As he grabbed supplies for toast, John asked, “Aren’t you going to ask how my date went?”

Sherlock pulled out the slide on the microscope and set it aside before placing another. “No. I can judge from your passive-aggressive demeanor that it didn’t go well.”

“Do you want to know why?”

Sherlock focused the microscope, twisting a knob on the side. “I imagine you blame me.”

John blinked away the visual of a hand slicking up a purple cock and plunged the bread into the toaster. “Well, you could have kept the kitchen clean like I asked. Or maybe slept in your bedroom. Without your arse hanging out.”

“Hmm. I’ve been told my arse is rather lovely. Did your date disagree?”

John scratched the back of his head as he shook it, watching his bread turn brown. “I wouldn’t know. She left pretty quickly.”

“Best to cull the weak from the herd, don’t you think?”

John looked up, a scathing retort at the ready, but then he saw the smirk curling Sherlock’s mouth.

John laughed. “You prick.”

As the toast popped up, John pulled his tea bag from the mug and threw it in the bin. He took out the slice and buttered it, turning to prop his arse on the counter and eat his breakfast.

Grumbling and groaning, Sherlock shifted in his seat, tipping his hips forward enough to tug at the sheet and then settling back again. He threw out the slide.

John’s head tilted as his gaze was drawn to Sherlock’s chair. Of course he wouldn’t put on pants. Why would he ever?

John took a bite of toast. “I have a half day at the surgery today. Want me to pick up lunch on the way home?”

Sherlock scratched at his lower abdomen before sitting back, hand splayed below his ribcage and fingers tapping out a rhythm. “If you insist.”

The movement of Sherlock’s fingers morphed from a tap to a swirl as his expression grew pensive, and John’s mind helpfully replaced the sheet with a bare torso smeared with come. Sherlock’s thoughtful expression with a flushed, relaxed one with sluggish eyelids floating up and down. Let’s not start that again. He blinked and looked away, shoving the last bit of toast in his mouth.

“I need to get ready for work,” John said around a mouthful of crumbs, and he escaped up the stairs.

***

John returned home close to three hours past when he had expected to. Ah, the perils of urgent care. With a bag of Chinese food in hand, he trotted up the stairs, tossing his keys on the kitchen table before fingering a pile of mail.

“Sherlock,” he called, setting the bag on the table. “I got the lobster dim sum for you.”

He took off his jacket, his eyes still occupied with the mail. Finally, he took in the rooms while he hung up his jacket.

“Sherlock?”

Still no answer, so he popped open one of the containers and plucked out a dumpling. Taking a bite, he leaned over the railing of the staircase.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you in?”

“Yes, dear,” came her muffled voice.

“Did Sherlock say where he was going?”

She came out the door to her flat, wiping her hands on a tea towel, and looked up at John. “I didn’t know he was gone.”

“All right.” He knocked once at the bannister before turning back towards the kitchen. “Cheers.”

John peered at the bag of food on the table as he popped the rest of the dumpling in his mouth. Perhaps he should save these for when Sherlock got back so he could steal a lobster dumpling without feeling guilty.

John pushed aside an expired carton of milk on the top shelf of the refrigerator and deposited the bag of food in its place. After that was all squared away, he headed up the stairs, loosening his tie and popping open the top button of his shirt as he went.

Once to his bedroom, he sat on the edge of his bed, sliding his laptop over as he sat. Untying the laces on one shoe, he glanced over at the laptop. He licked his bottom lip, holding it against his bottom teeth with his tongue as he peered down the steps. He looked back at the laptop as he slipped off his other shoe. True, he didn’t know when Sherlock would be back, but who knew when an opportunity like this would arise again? Especially when he had just found a bloody brilliant video.

He scooted up to the pillows and opened the laptop, browser still pointed to the video he watched the night before. God, that was sloppy, but it did have its advantages. He clicked the username of the uploader. It seemed to be a collection of favorites rather than a page belonging to Billy himself or his distributer, but it didn’t take long for John to find what he was looking for, this one boasting the title, “Billy Comes in His Pants.”

Billy was fully dressed this time, standing against a beige wall in jeans and a white t-shirt. John’s gaze settled on a hole just below the shirt’s collar, the shadow of a clavicle cutting straight through it in the stark light. Billy stretched his neck, bringing the tendons into sharp relief, shifting the shadow of his shoulder, emphasizing the hollow of his throat in a way that made John’s mouth water. Two moles dotted the path from throat to earlobe, and oh, how John would have loved to play connect-the-dots with them. Fingers or tongue or, oh God, stripe them with come.

John pulled the tie from his neck and undid another button on his shirt, his tongue dragging across his lower lip.

“Ready?” came a voice from the video, and Billy nodded, his chin barely dipping into frame.

Billy’s hand drifted up from his thigh to slide across the cotton covering his stomach. His fingers settled there for a moment before he clenched his fist in the fabric above his opposite hip and tugged the shirt from his jeans. Once the hem was free, he slipped his hand underneath, sliding it back across his abdomen and taking the shirt with it, revealing a swath of stomach adorned with a single mole to the southwest of his belly button, just above the low waistline of the jeans.

John pictured himself on his knees, kissing along the top of those jeans, pressing his tongue to the hollow next to his hipbone, laving over the mole, nibbling below his navel. The way Billy’s abdominal muscles jumped under his own fingers suggested that he was terribly sensitive, and John could just imagine the gasps and spasms he could elicit by teasing just so. And thanks to the last video, John knew he could come without being touched.

John’s fingers slipped into the gap between two shirt buttons at the waistband of his trousers. God, it had been so long since he’d been with a man. He’d almost forgotten how good it could be. Hard planes of muscle under his fingers. Stubble burn on his chin. The taste of precome on his tongue. And men were so much simpler. John could keep a man quivering on the edge for hours, make the most stalwart beg for mercy. Hell, after the Woman showed up, he couldn’t help but fantasize about Sherlock in that position. If she thought she could make a man beg for mercy, she should have seen what John could do.

Finally, Billy hooked his thumb underneath the hem of his shirt and pulled it up his chest, stopping at his right shoulder. The hem of the shirt drew a diagonal line across his torso, perfectly framing a lean pectoral and erect nipple. Billy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the sound of it downright obscene after the quiet.

As John popped open the top button of his trousers, he watched Billy’s right hand rise to toy with his exposed nipple. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Still no sounds except breathing. Then, he pinched it, tugging it away from his body, and his hips pitched forward, a gasp escaping his lips.

“Jesus fuck,” John breathed, slipping his hand into his pants. He tickled behind his perineum and dragged the heel of his hand up his shaft. As John cupped his glans in the palm of his hand, Billy’s right hand reached for the button on his jeans.

Long fingers slipped the button loose like it had been waiting for just that moment throughout its entire existence. He drew a circle with his fingertip over the tiny bit of flesh that had just been exposed.

“You’re such a tease,” said the voice that had spoken at the beginning of the video, and Billy responded with a chuckle, finger still tickling at his skin.

Whoever this Billy was, he was fucking brilliant. John’s cock was already pushing uncomfortably against the confines of his trousers, pulsing with arousal, aching for more attention. But John wallowed in it. He had no desire bring himself off just yet. Instead, he kept his palm cupped against his glans and skated his fingertips down his shaft and back up again. His hips stuttered against his own touch, and he felt the wet warmth of precome gush against his palm. He spread it, tilting his palm to his frenulum and then back over the slit to slick the velvety skin on the head, nudging back his foreskin.

Finally, Billy dragged down the zip on his jeans, folding down the sides of the fly to reveal royal blue pants just a shade off from the denim clinging to his thighs. A bulge distended the fabric, and John’s mouth watered. Any second now, Billy would be pulling himself out, stroking that beautiful cock. How did he like it? Would he start with his foreskin, massage it over his glans? Or did he like to toy with his balls first, maybe tug at them?

As John tilted his hips toward his palm, getting desperate for the video to progress--somehow he couldn’t consider the idea of finishing himself off before the performer even had his cock out--Billy cupped both hands over his bulge. One slid down to his balls, pressing the fabric against them tight enough that John could make out the shape of them through the pants. Even though John already knew what they looked like--remembering them bouncing and swaying beneath Billy’s body, drawing up tight--the sight of their silhouette under those deft fingers made John groan out loud, and finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. He wrapped his fist around his cock and thrust it into it.

“C’mon,” John gritted through his teeth as his hips canted beyond his control into his hand, sliding him down the bed until he was face to face with the screen. His hips pushed up again and again, forcing huffs of breath through his mouth. “Give it to me.”

Billy’s other hand slid up his shaft, thumb and forefinger circling it as the hand by his scrotum held the fabric in place. Slowly, the shape of his cock was revealed, long and erect. On the small side for a porn actor, but God, was it gorgeous. John thrust into his hand with abandon, a chorus of desperation echoing in his head. He wanted to see it. He didn’t want to come until all the glory of that cock was revealed to him. Just get it out.

But Billy kept stroking through his pants, careful that the shape of it remained apparent as he squeezed at the head, rubbed against it with his palm. Billy’s breath sped up, and John whined and moaned with each breath from his own mouth. As much as he tried to control himself, his hips wouldn’t still. His fist still flew. His balls pulled tighter to his body, and a spring coiled tighter and tighter in his groin.

Not yet. Oh God, not yet.

Billy gripped the base of his cock, and then his fingers squeezed in a ripple up the shaft, making a dark spot spread in the fabric at the tip of his cock. And that was it. John came right there in his pants, semen splattering against the fabric and spreading all over his hand as it got trapped there. And he shouted. He never shouted when he masturbated.

“Wow,” he breathed as the last of the aftershocks trembled out of his body. He ran his clean hand through his hair and glanced over at the video, where the performer was still stroking himself through his pants, his hips rolling and his free hand futilely gripping at the wall. John eased his hand from his pants. He held the hand away from himself, looking for somewhere to wipe it, but he didn’t see any good options. He’d have to just jog downstairs and wash his hands.

John froze at the sound of a thump. The floorboards downstairs creaked.

“John?” Sherlock called.

John slammed his laptop shut. “Sherlock?”

“Oh, good. You’re home.” The creaking of Sherlock’s footsteps grew louder. “Lestrade just texted me. It may actually be interesting.”

At the sound of Sherlock climbing the stairs, John’s gaze snapped to the open door. “Don’t come up here!”

Sherlock stopped.

John scrambled out of bed. “I’m getting dressed, Sherlock.”

“Oh. Hurry up.”

John shimmied out of his trousers and pants, wiping his hands on his pants before tossing them aside. Listening for Sherlock, he threw on new pants and a pair of jeans and changed into a jumper.

When John got to the bottom of the stairs, he found the Chinese food on the table--the boxes out and the bag tossed aside--and Sherlock pulling a magazine from the stack of mail and tossing it onto the table alongside. Sherlock sat and popped open the box of lobster dim sum.

John circled around the table to the sink, rinsing his hands under the water before reaching for the soap. “I’m glad I hurried.”

Sherlock opened the magazine as he bit into a dumpling. “We can talk while we eat.”

John sat across from Sherlock, drying his hands on his jeans. He pulled his box in front of him and sighed.

Sherlock glanced up, to his magazine, and back up again. Furrowing his brows, he said, “You look different.”

John bit into a dumpling, the picture of ease. “No I don’t.”

Sherlock propped his chin on his fingers. “You do. Staying over at work usually leaves you more”--he narrowed his eyelids--”harried.”

“What are you on about?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead, he tapped his index fingers against the front of his chin.

Finally, he dropped his hands with an, “Ah.”

“Ah?”

Sherlock flipped open his magazine. “You’ve obviously met a girl. Did you get her number?”

“Sherlock, there’s no girl.”

Sherlock paused in his reading, looked at John’s hands, and then went back to the magazine. “Oh.”

John picked up a dumpling but dropped it again. “I need a coffee.”

As Sherlock quietly ate his meal, John got down the coffee and a mug, setting the kettle to boil. But when he opened the drawer with the silverware, there were no spoons. John deflated.

“Where are the spoons?” he asked the splashback.

“Bedside table.”

“What are they… Nevermind.”

John walked into Sherlock’s bedroom and opened the bedside drawer to find four spoons nested with each other. It was only when he went to close the drawer that he realized how suspicious it was. Although Sherlock would never be foolish enough to leave contraband in the bedside table, John opened it again anyway.

Feeling around at the back of the drawer, John’s hand closed around a long, thin leather case. A drawn-out breath pushed its way out as John took out the case. Holding it in the palm of one hand, he drew back the zip, his heart banging in his chest. Please let it be something else.

Once the zipper was halfway open, John pushed open the sides and peeked inside. What greeted him was a purple frenulum.

He zipped the case, dropped it, and slammed the drawer, escaping to the kitchen with his spoons. But as he walked around the table, eyes on Sherlock studying his reading material, one thought repeated.

Purple.

God, he was being stupid. Probably millions of people owned purple dildos, and if Sherlock was going to own one, it made sense for it to be that color. It was about the only color in his wardrobe. That and blue. Probably more difficult to find a blue one, what with the association with blue balls. He was just surprised that Sherlock owned one in the first place, and it was probably just for an experiment anyway.

As John threw three spoons into the sink and rinsed the fourth, he shook the thought from his head. He shut off the water.

“Sherlock,” John said, scooping instant coffee into his mug. “Where are the rest of the spoons?”

“They were destroyed in an experiment.” Sherlock flipped a page. “Don’t worry. I’ll replace them.”

John poured boiling water into his mug and stirred as he walked around the table. “This experiment wouldn’t involve cotton and a lighter, would it?”

As John sat at the table, Sherlock looked up from his magazine, leveling a stare at John. “No. It wouldn’t.”

John stared into the depths of his coffee, watching bits of undissolved coffee bob at the surface. “Will you let me look at your arms?”

He looked up to find the level stare unchanged. John met it.

“Just ease my mind, would you?”

Sherlock reached across his body to undo one cuff and roll up the sleeves, and if one could roll sleeves passive-aggressively, Sherlock had it nailed. Once Sherlock had both sleeves up, he laid his arms across the table, wrists up. John leaned across to look, pressing his thumbs to the crooks of Sherlock’s elbows, surveying for marks. Finding nothing, he sat back.

Sherlock yanked down his sleeve. “Some people like to inject in the feet, John. Are you sure you don’t want to check there?”

“Sorry, Sherlock. But you have to admit it looked susp--”

“What about my chest?” Sherlock asked, ripping free the buttons at the top of his shirt. “For all you know, I placed a central line.”

Sherlock pulled the shirt aside, leaning his head away, the tendons in his neck pulling tight, revealing an unmarred pec. He held it there as John’s gaze flicked from Sherlock’s chest to his face and back again. A dusky areola peeked above the fabric.

Purple.

“Point taken, Sherlock. Put your shirt back on.”

Sherlock pushed his box of food across the table, making it spin, as he stood and buttoned his shirt. “Come along, John. We have a case.”

As Sherlock went into the sitting room, John peered into the box to find one lobster dumpling. Sherlock ran down the stairs, and John popped the dumpling into his mouth, circling around to his coat and following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to hopelesslybenaddicted for the beta.


	3. Chapter 3

The case wasn’t as interesting as Sherlock had hoped--a true suicide after all--and they found themselves walking back into the flat less than an hour later. Sherlock went straight for his bedroom, resolutely not slamming the door behind him.

As he hung up his coat, John sighed. Although he could understand Sherlock’s position, if he expected anything like an apology from John, he had another thing coming.

John strode down the hall and knocked on Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m getting dressed, John.”

“All right.” John ran his knuckles down the door before crossing his arms over his chest. “You understand why I did what I did, right?”

Sherlock opened the door, wearing pyjamas and a blue dressing gown. “Of course. It’s not my first time.”

Sherlock swept into the sitting room and flung himself on the sofa, his feet propped over the armrest closer to John. And as John walked by to get to his chair, he had to resist the urge to run a fingernail over the arch of Sherlock’s foot. He leaned over the coffee table to gather the errant bits of the morning paper.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“That case was a disaster.”

John tapped the edges of the paper in line. “Oh yes, it’s terrible that there isn’t a dangerous murderer running about. A woman just took her own life.” John sniffed. “That’s all.”

Sherlock looked at John and then waved him off. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” John took the paper to his chair and flopped into it with a sigh. “I do.”

Snapping open the pages of the newspaper, John propped his elbows on the sides of his chair and tucked in. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock started in on his usual murmuring, and John smiled. Did Sherlock even realize he did that?

John flipped down the corner of his paper, watching Sherlock’s mouth move around sotto voce words, his eyebrows raise, his hands gesture before tucking back under his chin. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his words, his stomach stretching and contracting. John could see the movement of Sherlock’s right internal oblique muscle where his shirt had ridden up.

John’s tongue tugged at his lower lip. Flitting through his mind were images of himself getting up from the chair, kneeling by the sofa, and slipping his palm underneath Sherlock’s shirt. He imagined the feeling of smooth skin and crisp hairs under his palm as his hand skated up Sherlock’s torso to settle over his breast bone. Which would he want to do first, kiss Sherlock’s stomach or his mouth? He couldn’t decide. He imagined the gasps he could elicit exploring Sherlock’s abdomen, his tongue massaging salty skin, Sherlock’s hands in his hair. But then there would be the velvety softness of Sherlock’s lips and tongue, finally being used for pleasure instead of incision. He could lay his hand over the side of Sherlock’s neck, feel every vocalization in his palm.

Sherlock’s right hand alighted on his belly, pushing his shirt aside in its movement. His hand curled and uncurled just above his navel, and John snapped the paper back into reading position. He pushed back any inkling of fantasy that he could. He really didn’t need to start that again. Who knew when they might have to share a bedroom again? He didn’t think he could stand that again, not when Sherlock insisted on talking to John while he was in the shower, and vice versa. Not when Sherlock changed clothes without a hint of modesty. Not when Sherlock stared at John’s chest every chance he got. And especially not when he couldn’t even take the edge off because Sherlock was always there. Hell, John was almost thankful when they’d fought. _No. None of that._

But still, as Sherlock continued to mumble, John’s mind couldn’t help but supply not-so-helpful images, reminding him of the purple dildo held in a place of honor in Sherlock’s room. Sherlock fingering himself open before sliding it into his body.

John cleared his throat and concentrated on the words in front of him. Maybe he could find something interesting. A case to get them out of the house and thinking about something else. Anything to distract Sherlock before he started squirming in his chair and deducing the lengths of John’s nose hairs and how they related to the current pollen count.

Finally, Sherlock leapt up from the sofa and out of the room, and John breathed a sigh of relief. He slid down in his chair and propped his feet on the edge of Sherlock’s. He spotted an article about a series of robberies that looked promising, so he folded the newspaper down to just the article and went into the kitchen for a pen as he read. He circled a few lines and wandered back to the sitting room.

A muffled groan sounded from the direction of the sofa.

John’s feet stuttered to a stop, and his gaze rose from the paper to the direction of the noise. _Please don’t be what I think it is._

Alas, John wasn’t that lucky. Sherlock lay flat on the couch, John’s laptop propped on his stomach. With a tap of Sherlock’s fingers, the sound stopped, but he still blinked at the screen.

They stood like that for some indeterminable amount of time, John’s lips trying to form words as his jaw clenched, and Sherlock’s eyelids blinking away. John’s nostrils flared, and his fist clenched around the paper. And then he threw it down, striding across the room and snapping the laptop shut.

“How many times, Sherlock?” John pulled the computer off Sherlock’s stomach. “My room is private space, not your bloody supply closet.”

Laptop tucked under his arm, John marched out of the sitting room and mounted the stairs to his room two at a time. He dropped it onto his bed and then shoved it into the drawer of his bedside table instead. He stood, hands on his hips, breaths gusting through his nose, jaw clenched, and stared at the table hiding his laptop.

Who the hell did Sherlock think he was? Why couldn’t John get some modicum of privacy in his own home? And why was he now as good as stuck in his bedroom?

Fuck that. He was going out. Maybe have a pint with Greg or Mike or, hell, Murray had been bugging him for ages.

John trotted down the stairs and grabbed his jacket, throwing it over his shoulders as he went for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” called Sherlock.

“Out.” John whipped open the door and let it close behind him.

***

As it neared midnight, John trudged up the stairs, tired from the beer, the hour, and Murray’s talk of wife and family and steady job. He hung up his jacket and peeked into the dark sitting room. Sherlock was still on the sofa, curled toward the back cushion. One arm pillowed his head, and the other was tucked between his legs.

John tiptoed over and wrapped his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock grumbled and burrowed himself further into the cushions. So, either asleep or having a truly spectacular pout. John shrugged and staggered up to his room.

As he sat on the bed and attempted to toe off his shoes, his gaze settled on his bedside table. Good God, they’d probably have to talk about it in the morning. John grimaced and kicked his shoes aside. Then, he fumbled with the button on his jeans. What did Sherlock even see? Maybe it wasn’t so bad as John thought. If Sherlock had deduced John’s attraction to him, or to men in general, he had never mentioned it. And surely he had figured it out by now. Maybe this was the one area where Sherlock actually had some tact.

John giggled at the thought and then stared down at his fingers. Damn things wouldn’t work. Must have been a faulty button, so he just pulled them down as they were. His pants went along for the ride, but fuck it. He had a whole drawer full of them.

He sat down with his pants and jeans still around his ankles, trying to pull his feet from them as he pulled his jumper over his head. His t-shirt followed, and then all his clothes were nicely gathered at his feet. He picked them up and chucked them towards the hamper. As they hit the floor, John licked between his cheeks and teeth, trying to coax saliva back into his mouth.

John’s gaze settled on the bedside table again, still wondering how damning the evidence was. And after staring for a few more moments, he tipped over, propping himself on his elbow as he opened the drawer.

He grimaced as he opened the laptop, eyelids squinted so tight that John’s eyelashes got in the way of his vision. The screen lit up, prompting John for his passcode. John typed it in, UMQRA. God, he thought he was being so clever. Obviously not.

The screen filled with a close up of long fingers over blue pants, and the video started playing immediately. The performer’s voice had already devolved into wrecked groans. His palm pressed to the front of his pants, his hips jerking and grinding against it, and the other hand had its fingers tucked between his legs, three of them pushing against his perineum.

John’s heart rate sped, and he would have said it was from sheer terror of what Sherlock had seen if it weren’t for his top hip rolling forward and canting toward the mattress. Crisp cotton teased at the underside of his cock as the performer lost it, come darkening the front of his pants, some of it leaking over the waistband.

Good holy fuck, that was hot.

Two fingers swept the semen from Billy’s stomach and disappeared before John heard a low hum reverberating through the speakers. John’s hips jerked and a completely indecipherable string of vowels stuttered their way from his throat.

_Holy shit._

John shoved the laptop aside and hopped up, scrambling through his drawers until he came up with a bottle of lube. Then, he leapt back into bed. Once he had some lube in his right palm, he escaped from the video and spread the lube on his cock. He laid on his side, propped on his left elbow as he scrolled through a list of suggestions, his right leg bent to grant him easier access to his balls and perineum.

He gasped when he saw it. He didn’t even bother to read the title before clicking on it. All that mattered was the picture of Billy face down on a bed, legs spread wide and hands gripping the rails of a headboard. Even the screen the video paused on as it buffered was salacious, and John groaned, pushing into his fist and then gripping the base to keep himself under control. Because Billy’s hands weren’t gripping a headboard; they were tied to it. And peeking from between his arse cheeks was the base of a plug, his hips tilted back to put it on display.

John’s heel tapped against the bed. Would the stupid fucking internet hurry up already?

Finally, the spinning wheel disappeared, and a fully-clothed man entered the frame. He kneeled next to the bed, running his fingers through Billy’s shaggy auburn curls.

“You look so beautiful, baby,” he said, tilting Billy’s head until they could kiss, and what a kiss it must have been because Billy’s hips circled against the bed, and he moaned, a little sigh escaping at the end.

“Vic--”

“Don’t worry.” He soothed his fingers over Billy’s scalp. “I’ll make sure nobody can see your face.”

Billy nodded, and the other man stood, skating his palm down Billy’s back as he walked. When he reached Billy’s arse, he stopped, reaching with both hands to massage the cheeks, snaking his thumbs under the edge of the base of the plug. After a moment of that, he pulled the plug out and slowly slid it back in, angling it down, and Billy’s head popped up with a gasp. Then, his shoulders tensed, his arms pulling at his restraints, and his head dipped as his hips jerked up towards the plug and then circled back down again, movements like a cat stretching in the sun.

John groaned. God, he ached. Everything else could disappear; this was hands-down the best porn in existence.

“Will you leave this in when you’re finished? When you’re ready, I’d really like to fuck you,” asked the clothed man.

“Yes,” Billy hissed, pushing up on his elbows to get more room to thrust, and finally John got a full view of Billy’s cock, hard and flushed. John shuddered. Who knew how long they had been going at it before the camera had even been turned on?

Billy undulated against the bed, arse cheeks squeezing around the plug, and his moans and whimpers escalated quickly to desperate whines. John panted, his fist squeezing and hips canting in time with Billy’s.

The other man curled his hand over Billy’s calf. “Don’t speed up. You can do it.”

Billy settled into a slow rhythm, though he still whined with every thrust, and John slammed the computer shut. He threw himself on his back, eyes wrenched shut, and he imagined Sherlock in that position, desperate and begging as John told him what to do. John’s hips rose off the bed. His feet slid against the duvet, scrambling for a place to plant themselves.

He imagined pushing up Sherlock’s hips until he couldn’t rub himself on the bed, slipping out the plug, rubbing the head of his slick cock from coccyx to testicles and back up again, teasing at Sherlock’s entrance before sliding in, feeling muscles flutter around him.

John keened from between clenched teeth, his cock pulsing and jerking in his hand as hot come splattered against his chest. As the jerking and trembling subsided, John collapsed to the bed, feeling utterly wrung out.

Running the fingers of his right hand through his own release, he opened the laptop with his left and exited the internet browser. He giggled; even drunk, he knew better than to leave the video open this time. Belatedly, he realized he hadn’t saved the video, but hopefully that would be all right.

That should have gotten it out of his system for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this one posted. I didn't have my laptop this weekend, and I couldn't figure out how to get it to work from my tablet. Once again, many thanks to hopelesslybenaddicted.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this fic!


	4. Chapter 4

John navigated himself down the stairs by the view through one slitted eye, holding the wall at bay with both hands. The sounds of Sherlock bustling about the sitting room pounded into John’s ears, and he paused until the room righted itself on its axis. He’d have just gone back to bed if it weren’t for the fact that the aspirin was in the kitchen.

So, he hobbled his way down the last steps, kitchen cabinet centered in his limited view. When his foot was pointing down to feel for the landing, Sherlock popped into John’s view. Into all of it. John tilted his head back to squint at Sherlock’s face.

“What are you doing?” John whispered.

“Get back upstairs.” Sherlock bounced around like a puppy.

John pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. “Just let me--”

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders, turned him around, and nudged him forward. When John peered over his shoulder, his brows entwining themselves above his eyes, Sherlock stooped. John jumped at the sudden movement, and then Sherlock’s shoulder was pressing against John’s spine.

John stumbled up to the next step, his hand grasping at the railing. “Sherlock! What are you doing?”

Sherlock nudged John again. “Go get dressed. We have places to be.”

“What could have possibly happened between last night and now?”

“I’ll show you,” Sherlock said and rushed towards the sitting room. John barely caught himself before collapsing like a folding chair. He stepped down to the landing and propped himself on the bannister as Sherlock whisked the paper John had marked from the coffee table.

“This.” Sherlock held the paper up to John’s face, making John wince. Sherlock pulled it back to look at it himself. “You’re brilliant, John. This will be perfect. Now go and get dressed.”

John held up his hands. “Fine. Fine.”

John ducked around Sherlock to get to the first step and climbed with one hand gripping the banister and the other leaning on the wall. After about two steps of that, Sherlock swooped under John’s shoulder and hurried him up the stairs. Whether it was meant to help John or just get him up the stairs faster couldn’t be said.

Yawning, John walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a knit shirt and a vest. He got his t-shirt off and the vest on without any problem, but when it came to getting himself into the long sleeves and collar of his shirt, he had a little trouble getting all the holes lined up.

While John’s head was still deep in the recesses of his clothes, he heard, “Do you need help?”

John paused, reaching for his collar with a cloth-covered hand. He whipped it over his head and looked at Sherlock. “Why are you still here? Can’t a man have some privacy in his own home?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a frown. “Very well. I’ll be downstairs.”

John’s heart beat so fast and so loud that each pulse hurt his breastbone, and his head swam. Not that he had particularly wanted to talk about what happened the night before, but he didn’t want it to start and end with that. He got his arms into his sleeves and sat down to change into trousers and put on his shoes.

He trotted down the stairs, steadier on his feet since a jolt of adrenaline had woken him up. Without looking at Sherlock, he pointed to the kitchen cabinet. “Let me just get an aspirin and some water before we leave.”

***

Sherlock barged into Lestrade’s office, immediately shedding his coat and scarf and hanging them on a coat tree inside the door. He nodded to Greg.

“Good morning.” He turned to John. “You’ll be needing a coffee.”

“Yeah.” John glanced between Sherlock and Greg. “I’ll go get us some. Greg?”

Greg nodded. “Black. Please.”

John walked over to the coffee maker, pulling out three paper cups. Black for Greg, a splash of milk for himself, and a “would you like some coffee with your sugar?” for Sherlock.

As he neared the office, cups clutched to his chest, he heard, “These are your options, Sherlock. Take them or leave them.”

John walked into the office, carefully setting coffee on the desk as Sherlock replied in a stern voice, “You don’t understand--”

“Don’t come into my office and tell me how to do my job.” Greg took his coffee from the desk and nodded to John. “Thank you, John.” He looked at Sherlock. “This isn’t my division or my jurisdiction. I have no say in what happens in your case. If you want to work on that, contact their department yourself.”

Sherlock’s jaw worked as he looked from Greg to the newspaper to the files on his desk. As John watched it move, his gaze landed on two moles on Sherlock’s neck pointing to his ear. John’s brow furrowed, and his blood pulsed in his temple. He had seen the moles before, but he had never really noticed them. So why was his brain suddenly stuck on them? Slurping from his coffee, he turned away to inspect the files on Greg’s desk.

He spun one towards himself. “What do you have?”

“Homicides. My actual job.” Greg raised an eyebrow at Sherlock then turned back to John. “This one was an elderly woman. No signs of forced entry. Neighbors didn’t report seeing any visitors that day, but they did say that she had been acting strangely before her death. Banging on the walls, yelling at people to be quiet while they were fast asleep. One said she accosted him in the hallway and asked why the property managers wouldn’t get rid of all the bats.”

Sherlock dragged the folder over to him and flipped it open. John’s gaze alighted on Sherlock’s moles and then back on the folders.

“We figured it was dementia, natural causes, but her urine tested positive for cocaine.”

Sherlock pulled out a picture of a window box of flowers. “You didn’t find any in her flat.”

“No. No paraphernalia, no signs of injection sites or lung or sinus damage. Not so much as a lager or a bottle of wine.”

John watched Sherlock as he flipped through the photographs, those two moles taunting him as his gaze flickered between Sherlock’s face and his neck. What the hell was it? Nothing looked unusual about them, absolutely nothing to suggest either of them were cancerous or abnormal. Though, with as many moles as Sherlock had, he should get them checked out. John doubted a doctor had ever looked at them.

John blinked and glanced down to where Sherlock was pulling out a picture of the victim’s kitchen.

Sherlock’s forefinger thumped against the picture of the flowers. “Find out who got her these flowers. That’s the murderer.”

“What makes you say that?” Greg asked.

Sherlock flipped the photo of the kitchen towards Greg. “Angel’s trumpet. They put it in her tea. If you test her hair, I’d imagine it started just before her behavior became disruptive.”

Greg picked up the kitchen picture and squinted at it. “My God.”

John peered at the photos. “Amazing.”

“Got any more?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.” Greg picked up a stack of three files. “Of course. Here.”

Sherlock gave Greg a tight smile as he took the folders, flipping open the top one. “Boring.”

He tossed the first folder aside, and it landed with a slap as Sherlock opened the second. “Boring.”

And the third. “Boring.” Sherlock pushed his hands against his hips and let out a long breath, rocking back on his feet. “Is that really all you have? Surely with your clearance rate there would be more.”

“All right.” Greg spread his arms and flapped his hands forward. “That’s enough for today. Out of my office.”

“You’re in quite the mood,” Sherlock replied. “I see you slept in your office last night. Which is it, trouble at work or trou--”

“Sherlock,” John warned, pressing his fingers to his temple.

“Remember this for next time. Maybe then you’ll think twice about barging into my office first thing Sunday morning.” Greg raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Now, do I need to call Anderson? I bet he’d love to escort you out.”

Sherlock scoffed, but John gulped down the last of his coffee and grabbed Sherlock’s coat.

“That won’t be necessary,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s elbow, who shook it off and strode out of the office to the lift as if that was his intention all along. John held out Sherlock’s coat, and Sherlock grabbed it by the collar and swept it around him, shrugging into the sleeves before pulling his scarf from his pocket.

Watching the two moles disappear behind Sherlock’s scarf, John still couldn’t figure out why he was stuck on them. They looked familiar, but of course they would. He’d seen them every day for two years even if he had never noticed them. He shrugged, following Sherlock into the lift.

Once they were in the lift, Sherlock jabbed the button for the ground floor and then yanked on each glove. John huffed--he hoped quietly enough that Sherlock wouldn’t notice. It was going to be one of those days.

Sherlock was out of the lift before the doors were all the way open, leaving John in the dust. John took his own pace to the pavement, but he was only halfway to the street doors when Sherlock spun around, his hand already poised to open it.

“John, are you coming?”

“Yes. Just give me a minute. Not everyone has legs as long as yours.”

Sherlock grunted a single laugh as he held open the door for John before flagging down a cab. Once it was there, Sherlock flung the door open and threw himself into the far side of the cab. John barely had time to get in his seat before Sherlock was giving the cabbie their address and telling him to, “Move already.”

Sherlock kept his scarf on in the car, his knuckles tapping a cadence on the window, his knees bouncing. If it weren’t for the inherent motion of the car, John was sure Sherlock would be making it rock, and it wasn’t long before he was fed up.

The cab stopped at a red light, but the rocking didn’t stop with it. John grabbed Sherlock’s kneecap.

Sherlock paused, examining John’s hand on his knee and then turning to John, his expression pensive.

John squeezed. “Give the legs a rest, yeah?”

Sherlock looked out the window and then glanced back to John. “Fine.”

But, they barely reached the next street before those legs were bouncing again, but this time Sherlock shifted in his seat over and over, as if there were a pea underneath his cushion. John chose to ignore it. It was only a couple more minutes to Baker Street, so he’d just look out the window.

That was sort of successful. It distracted him from Sherlock’s squirming, but it also reminded him of his hangover, the morning light pounding against his temples and the rocking of the cab sloshing around the coffee in an otherwise empty stomach. Oh, except for the aspirin.

The arrival at Baker Street was a relief until Sherlock whisked out of the driver’s side of the cab and trotted up the stairs to unlock the front door. John dug for his wallet and paid the cabbie before following.

He got to the top of the stairs just as Sherlock flung open the door and sprinted up the stairs. John closed the door behind him and walked over to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Good morning, John,” she said as she opened the door. “You boys left awfully early this morning. Not getting into trouble, I hope.”

“Unfortunately.” John paused. “You didn’t happen to see if our paper got delivered, did you?”

“Oh. Yes, dear. I have it. Come in, and I’ll fetch it for you.” She walked to the back of her flat.

“Thanks.” John stepped into the kitchen, inhaling the scent of baking, and his stomach growled. “Something smells good.”

Mrs. Hudson reappeared with the paper. “Oh, I was just making scones. Here you are, love.”

“Thank you.” John tucked the paper under his arm.

“Would you like some scones? I baked too many. Here. I’ll put some on a plate for you.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but his stomach reminded him that that would be a terrible idea. Instead, he watched as she loaded a plate and brought it to him.

As she handed John the plate, she said, “Now make sure Sherlock has some of these.”

John bit a hunk from a scone near the top. “I will. Cheers.”

When John reached the top of the stairs, he heard Sherlock bustling around his room, a dresser drawer slamming shut. Raising an eyebrow at the noise, John set paper and the plate of scones on the kitchen table and then grabbed the one he had started eating already.

“Mrs. Hudson sent up scones,” he called in Sherlock’s general direction.

Sherlock appeared in his bedroom door, whipping a t-shirt over his head. “What kind?”

John looked at the plate. “Um, currant, I think.”

John looked back up to find Sherlock tugging the hem of his t-shirt down over his low-slung pyjama bottoms. He grabbed the paper, but something gave him pause. Was that? He peered at Sherlock without moving his head, watching through his lashes. The t-shirt shifted over Sherlock’s abdomen, offering no visual of the skin underneath, as he swiped a scone from the table. Did he see a mole near Sherlock’s navel? Somewhere to the southwest?

John’s eyes went wide before he could stop them, but luckily, Sherlock had already turned to stomp back to the bedroom. Tucking the paper under his arm, John went to the sitting room and collapsed in his chair, blowing out a long breath. He really did not want to deal with this right now. He was too tired, too nauseated, and too headachey to entertain the increasing possibility that he may have been getting off exclusively to Sherlock in the past few days.

He bit off another hunk of scone and separated the front page from the rest of the paper. As he tucked in to read, he heard Sherlock collapse into his own chair with a huff. John felt more than saw Sherlock’s constant motion in the chair. He huffed and dropped the paper to his lap.

His eyes hit on Sherlock’s writhing groin on the way to his face. “What is it?”

“A case, John. I need a case.” Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room, his hands assaulting the armrests on his chair.

“And just what is wrong with the burglaries? You were awfully excited about them this morning.”

Sherlock groaned, wriggling his arse against the chair. “Everyone in that department is tedious.”

John glanced at Sherlock’s neck before raising his eyebrows.

“They won’t work with me.” He bounded forward in his spot until his arse was barely perched on the edge of the chair, his knees invading John’s space. “What’s in the paper?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well”--Sherlock hopped up, balancing himself on his feet in the chair--”find out.”

John turned back to the paper, glancing at Sherlock’s neck and then back again. The first page was all the usual boring politics. He flipped the page.

Sherlock bounced in the chair, making it squeak. “Hurry up.”

John clenched his fists in the paper, his head snapping up. “Then let me read!”

He looked back down at the paper for only a moment before Sherlock said, “You keep looking at my neck. Why are you doing that?”

John’s head popped up again, his heart racing like a locomotive. “I’m not doing that.”

“You are.” He hopped out of the chair, checking his reflection in the mirror above the mantle. “I don’t have anything on it. It looks the same as always.”

Sherlock peered at John with his I-will-deduce-you-until-you-crawl-into-your-shell look, and John tried to go back to his paper. It worked--or at least he thought it did--for a second before Sherlock set off to pace the room, his hands pressed together in front of his mouth.

“My neck isn’t any different, so some part of your perspective on it must have changed. Usually if you’re fixated on a part of me, it’s my clavicle--”

“What?”

“But you never realize you’re doing that. You’re sneaking looks now. So it’s not a doctorly concern, you’d be open with that.”

“Sherlock, just stop.”

Instead, Sherlock paced the sitting room, muttering to himself. John went back to the paper until he could come back with something useful.

“Here’s something abou--”

“I’ve got it,” Sherlock shouted, bounding back to his chair.

John tossed aside the paper and rested his temple on his fingertips as Sherlock vibrated across from him.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you.”

“I don’t know wh--”

“I thought you already knew when I found one of my videos on your laptop, but you didn’t, did you?”

“I don’t--” John started, but what was the point? He sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

“I see.” Sherlock finally sat his butt in the chair. “Well?”

John threw up his hands. “Well what?”

“Well, what did you think?”

John’s jaw dropped, working around silent utterances before he finally managed to say, “Why would you want to know that?”

Sherlock scooted forward in his chair, leveling his gaze on John. “Call it intellectual curiosity.”

John slumped. “What could that possibly satisfy?”

“So you liked it.”

“Fine.” John huffed. “Yes, I like them.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. “Them?”

“I’m sorry. Are you enjoying this?”

“Immensely.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together, rocking them from side to side, and surveyed John from his hair to his toes.

John threw his arms over the sides of his chair. “Why is it that you’re the one who made porn, yet I’m the one being humiliated?”

“What do I have to be humiliated about? For that matter, what do you?”

“Do I need to spell it out?” John’s left leg slid against the rug until it hit the leg of Sherlock’s chair. He fought hard to keep his face calm, his breathing even.

“Oh no, I know why you think you should be humiliated, but you’re being stupid.” If it was possible, Sherlock scooted closer to the edge of his chair, his knee pushing against John’s. He propped his chin on his fingers. “So what do I have to be humiliated about?”

John blinked, pressed the tips of his fingers to his palms. “You know what? Nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“That’s not surprising.” Sherlock smirked.

A single, silent laugh huffed from John. “Oh, bugger off.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his leg sliding down John’s until their feet were touching, his toes tapping against the top of John’s shoe. John rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and his stomach rumbled. Had enough time passed for him to take more aspirin?

As John pushed off the chair, he grumbled, “I need a cup of tea.”

He grabbed the mugs and the tea bags, but as he started the water to fill the kettle, his neck prickled. He turned around to find Sherlock leaning on the counter to his right

“You watched more than one,” Sherlock said.

“I did.”

“You sought them out, in fact.”

John swallowed. “Yes.”

Sherlock smirked. “Want to see some more?”

John jerked off the faucet. His jaw clenched. “Look. Don’t worry. It won’t happen again, all right?”

He struck the kettle to its base and set it to boil. Meanwhile, Sherlock didn’t say a word.

“I didn’t know it was you when I started,” John said.

“Obviously.”

“And this doesn’t need to affect anything. I can compartmentalize. I know that’s not really you, so I’m not going to start hitting on you now--”

“Pity.”

John turned on Sherlock. “Don’t taunt me.”

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“Stop.” John looked back at the kettle, watching bubbles slowly float to the top. “I know you’re not into that-- that sort of stuff. And I’m not so naive to think that’s why you did it. I know there are lots of reasons people do porn. I’m sure it was just a job to you. Something to do for money, and you certainly must have made a lot. You were brillia…”

John swallowed and then heard, “I enjoy sex.”

John scoffed, turning to face Sherlock. “Okay, Mr. Married-to-my-work.”

“It’s true. I am. Sex hurts the job, but I avoid many things I enjoy for the sake of the work.’

John flashed back to the spoons. “Sorry. I didn’t--”

Sherlock brushed it off.

“But what about...” John pointed his thumb towards the bedroom.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow just as the kettle squealed, and John jumped out of his skin. He barely contained a shout. He stepped aside for the tea bags when Sherlock sidled up by his elbow, pulling the kettle from its base. Once John had the bags in the mugs, Sherlock poured the water, reaching his arm across John’s stomach.

John turned as Sherlock’s arm withdrew, as if a rod connect his navel to Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock replaced the kettle, and there he was in all his disheveled beauty, the once manic body still, but nervous energy still buzzed through it. John could feel it, like a mild electric current, standing every hair on end. His gaze dropped to Sherlock’s mouth, pouty bottom lip held between rows of teeth.

Ah, hell.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Making tea. Why?”

John pressed his fingers to the inside of his eyebrows, sweeping them out to his temples. “You’ve already proven I’m attracted to you and humiliated me enough for at least two weeks. You can drop it now.”

Sherlock’s posture went stiff, his eyes staring down at John even as he held his haughty head high. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

John grabbed a mug. “Then what--”

John paused, mug in midair. Oh. He set it down on the counter. “Oh.”

Sherlock scowled, and overcome by the urge to wipe the scowl off his face, John grabbed Sherlock by the nape and crashed their mouths together. He wasted no time, nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth and following its shape with his tongue. And when Sherlock’s teeth grazed his top lip, John growled. Oh God, he was kissing Sherlock, and Sherlock actually wanted it. Not just wanted it. Judging by the way Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth, tugged John’s lips between his teeth, swept his tongue across John’s, Sherlock had been dying for it as much as John had.

With a chuckle at his good fortune, John slipped his hands between Sherlock’s dressing gown and the rest of him. The silk of the robe tickled at the backs of John’s hands as his palms found Sherlock’s arse. His fingers finding the crease between arse and thigh, John flashed back to the latest video, the plug in Sherlock’s arse, the desperate and sensual way he moved his body, and he shuddered.

“God, Sherlock,” John panted, his hands exploring gluteal muscles, sliding up, under the back of Sherlock’s shirt. “You have no idea.”

With the break in their connection, Sherlock stooped, his arms wrapped tight around John’s back, and latched onto John’s neck.

John felt the bloom of blood rising to the surface of his skin, the points of teeth against his skin, a tongue tracing his carotid artery, and his hand flew into Sherlock’s hair, the other still kneading at Sherlock’s arse. He wanted to eat that arse. Kiss every inch of it until Sherlock spread his legs on instinct, tilting his hips against John’s lips. Then he’d lick, tease Sherlock’s perineum, part Sherlock’s testicles with his tongue, slowly work his way out until his tongue teased from the base of Sherlock’s cock to the rim of his arsehole, until Sherlock didn’t know what to beg for.

John canted hips, finding the answering pressure of Sherlock’s erection, and Sherlock popped off John’s neck with a gasp. John pushed the dressing gown off Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock released his grip just long enough to let it fall. John helped free it from Sherlock’s wrists, and once it was free, his fingers found their way up bare arms, tracing the outline of biceps and triceps, deltoids and trapezius. Once he returned to Sherlock’s neck, he pressed at Sherlock’s jaw and the base of his skull, just enough pressure to guide Sherlock’s mouth back to his.

Sherlock pressed in close, towering over John until he had to tip his head back to keep their mouths together. As Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, John felt warm, engulfed, safe. The sounds of London that were usually omnipresent in the flat faded away, replaced with John’s pulse in his ears, Sherlock’s breath on his face, shared whimpers and moans.

John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, his hands sliding up Sherlock’s back, under his shirt, laying flat on either side of Sherlock’s spine, his thumbs tracing rib bones. A groan rumbled through Sherlock’s chest, the vibrations echoing against John’s chest, and John nearly lost it right there. His hand flew back to Sherlock’s arse, pressing them together. He rolled his body against Sherlock’s, sending a jolt of pleasure through him, and Sherlock’s breath broke off in an aborted moan.

“I want you so much,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips, nipping at the swollen flesh there, grazing his bottom lip against Sherlock’s mouth, pulling back just as Sherlock tried to deepen the kiss. He pushed up on his toes to do the same with Sherlock’s jaw, lips catching on stubble.

“Have me then,” Sherlock said as he worked open John’s button and zip, pushing trousers and pants over John’s hips.

John hissed as his cock bobbed free, blood rushing down as it was finally allowed to, pulsing through his groin. His hips stuttered, his cock sliding over the soft fabric of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. He gripped the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pressed the top of his head between his hands.

He shivered. “Sherlock.”

John canted his hips against Sherlock’s thigh, unable to stop himself. He tried, but the fabric was so soft against his skin, and Sherlock’s hands were on his hips, curving around to cup John’s arse. Sherlock’s own voice was wrecked, raspy breaths and groans emanating from his throat. From his beautiful throat.

John lifted his head, licking into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, his hips choosing their own rhythm. Sherlock’s fingers explored, tracing the crest of John’s hips, the hollow by the bone, the sensitive skin below the navel, finally laying over the length of John’s cock, loosely curling around him.

“God, John, you’re--” Sherlock cut himself off with a groan, ripping one of John’s hands from where it was fisted in his shirt and guiding it to his waistband. “You’re so…”

John got the hint, tugging Sherlock’s bottoms off his hip, tilting himself backwards enough to let them pass until they could fall to the floor, and finally his cock came into contact with the bare skin and the waxen hairs on Sherlock’s thigh.

He grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it up. “I’m so what?”

Sherlock pressed his thigh against John’s cock, his own leaving a wet trail on John’s lower abdomen. “You’re so”--Sherlock swallowed, his fingers still exploring the length and breadth of John’s cock--”God. Fuck me. Just fuck me. I want your cock in me.”

John let out a rush of breath, crashing their mouths together again, sucking on Sherlock’s tongue, sweeping his own over it as he pressed their bodies tight together. With regret, he broke their mouths apart.

“Yeah,” John panted, burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck. “God, yes.”

“Good.” Sherlock broke apart from John and moved a chair aside before he leaned over, propping himself on his elbows.

John stifled a chuckle, sweeping his thumbs from Sherlock’s perineum up, parting cheeks with his palms. “Just like that, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock insisted. “If you want this to last at all, I suggest you get your cock in my arse as quickly as possible.”

Leave it to Sherlock to be pragmatic during sex. John shrugged before wetting his thumb to draw circles around Sherlock’s hole, just as pink and perfect as in the video though surrounded by a bit more hair. “Fair enough. Is there anything in your room?”

Sherlock’s back hunched, suppressing a tremor. “Lube. No condoms.”

John pressed the tip of his thumb just past the first sphincter, shivering at the tight squeeze around it. “I have some upstairs. I’ll go get them.” Regrettably, John let his thumb slide out of Sherlock’s body. “But next time, I want to lick you until you beg.”

As John circled around the table, Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a groan and growl. “I’d enjoy that.”

John bounded up the stairs, grabbed his lube and condoms from the nightstand, and ran down the stairs just as footsteps sounded in the hall outside 221a. He hurled himself into the kitchen.

“Hurry,” he said, urging Sherlock towards the bedroom. “Before Mrs. Hudson comes up here.”

Sherlock walked more slowly than John would have liked, though he probably saw no reason to keep this particular visual from Mrs. Hudson. Hell, she’d probably rejoice, but John wasn’t too keen on it.

Finally, Sherlock was in the bedroom, and John slammed the door behind them, listening through the wood.

“Yoo hoo,” Mrs. Hudson called. “Huh.”

There was a pause and the sound of footsteps coming in the kitchen.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said behind him, and John flapped his arm in that direction and shushed.

“I didn’t hear them leave,” Mrs. Hudson puzzled, and then finally her footsteps retreated.

“All right,” John sighed. “Where were we?”

He turned to Sherlock--who cut a fine picture on the bed on his hands and knees, cock jutting, eyes staring at John--and scrambled onto the bed, centering himself behind Sherlock.

“I don’t see why we had to wait.”

John squeezed lube onto his fingers and spread it between Sherlock’s cheeks. “I’m not thrilled with the idea of our landlady walking in on us fucking.”

“She’s seen worse.”

John chuckled, squeezing more lube onto his fingers. “She’d probably go straight out and buy us a copy of the gay Kama Sutra.”

Sherlock pushed himself against John, his balls sweeping over the top of John’s cock. “Stop talking.”

John cocked his head as he focused his attention on Sherlock’s bum, sliding in his middle finger. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Sherlock grunted in relief, pushing himself against John’s finger. “Hurry.”

“Fuck,” John huffed, watching his finger slide in and out with the rhythm of Sherlock’s body. He pressed the palm of his free hand to Sherlock’s coccyx, and once he stilled, John eased in a second finger, curling them downwards to hit Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock groaned, his back hunching, his hips pulsing forward. One arm flew to the top of the headboard, gripping it hard. The way his body moved, the muscles shifting under his skin, his arse squeezing and releasing… God.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Look at you.” John collapsed over Sherlock, his forehead against the small of Sherlock’s back, and closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of Sherlock’s body, his lips brushing Sherlock’s skin. He kissed down Sherlock’s spine, massaging each millimeter with his tongue. Thrilling at the feel of Sherlock’s body pushing John’s fingers to the right spot, making himself cry out and choke on moans.

“Now, John. Now,” Sherlock choked, still fucking himself on John’s fingers.

As John pulled out his fingers to get the condom on, Sherlock growled. John hurried with the lube, hands shaking, his whole body shaking with adrenaline. And then he was behind Sherlock, cock poised over Sherlock’s hole, and his body shuddered. God, what a sight. How long had he wanted this? Wanted to be inside Sherlock, wanted Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, their bodies writhing against each other, long snogs on the sofa. Oh, God.

As if on cue, Sherlock parted his legs until he was at the perfect height for John. John laid his hand over the top of Sherlock’s spine, sweeping it down to the small of his back and finally around to his hip. He took a deep breath to still himself, steadied his cock with his hand, and pushed forward.

“Christ,” John choked. “That’s tight. Oh fuck, that’s tight.” With one hand still on Sherlock’s hip, he braced himself on Sherlock’s back, his body trembling as he fought to keep enough control not to just bury himself in Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock’s hand braced on the headboard slapped against it, the tendons in his arms sharp with effort, as his voice came out in panted grunts.

“Is that okay?” John asked. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “Keep going.”

Oh God, that voice, so desperate, so rough, it was no wonder that the words were barely out before John slid home, curling himself over Sherlock’s back, his gluteal muscles squeezing on their own accord, rocking John into Sherlock. One of John’s hands flew to the duvet, his fist clenching in the fabric, his arm tense with the effort of keeping him in place. He wanted fuck Sherlock hard, make him convulse and shudder underneath him, leave him incoherent, but God, he felt so good. Just like that.

“Sherlock,” John choked.

And Sherlock whispered back in a rush of breath, “John.”

“Am I getting the spot?” John’s thighs trembled as he held himself deep in Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, bracing his other arm on the headboard as well. “It’s good.”

They rocked together like that, John’s hips canting and Sherlock pushing back against him, both holding back just to wallow in the sensations, but then John circled his hips, ground his pelvis against Sherlock’s, and a shiver ran through Sherlock’s body as his shout filled the room.

“More,” he groaned, pushing himself back against John again and again until John had no choice to keep up. His supporting arm screamed in protest; Sherlock’s sharp pelvis bumped against John’s hipbones, and each thrust made the duvet slide down the bed, but John couldn’t notice them. All that existed were Sherlock’s grunts and the smooth skin against John’s stomach, the abdominal muscles undulating under his fingers, the muscles squeezing around him, his lips and tongue and teeth against Sherlock’s back.

“God. So good. Sherlock, you feel so good.”

“John,” Sherlock moaned, the O stretching out to the most erotic sound John had ever heard. His body jerked and shuddered under John. Oh God, he was coming. John reached down Sherlock’s torso, curling his fingers over the base of Sherlock’s cock, feeling it jump in his hand, feeling testicles drawn up tight, come sliding down to his fingers.

“Shit.” With a final squeeze, John fell over the edge, his body still and silent as it exploded through him, bolts of electricity zinging up his spine and out to his fingertips as he held on for dear life. “Shit.”

John opened his eyes, surprised to find the world still present and unchanged. He eased off Sherlock and collapsed next to him. Sherlock still had one hand on the headboard, his head lolling against that arm, a smile on his face, just begging to be kissed. So John did. He scooted himself so his head was directly beneath Sherlock’s and leaned up on his elbows to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Sherlock hummed.

“Good?” John asked.

“I trust this cured your dry spell.”

“God, yeah. Unless”--Oh shit, did he misunderstand--”this was just a one-time thing.”

Sherlock slid himself down the bed until he could collapse against John’s shoulder. “Don’t be so obtuse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final round of thanks to hopelesslybenaddicted for the beta read.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the story. It was a lot of fun to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to hopelesslybenaddicted for the beta!


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